


What A Fool Believes

by CN7



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-13 05:23:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16886418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CN7/pseuds/CN7
Summary: Little pieces picked up and put back together, paired apart by treachery, and partnered by fate.....Alistair finds himself infinitely drawn to the woman who lit the beacon in the dark.





	What A Fool Believes

You have never seen the Warden so eerily still as when the Knight-Commander approaches. Her pale eyes are unblinking, like a cat who’s found its prey. Except, you cannot be certain if it is she who does the stalking. The stern knight tells her he is glad she survived Ostagar, and bewildered bristle besets her features.

“Are you really?” she wonders, and for a moment, she looks relieved.

The Knight-Commander’s expression puckers. He claims, “Hmm, well, I have not forgotten your part in your friend’s escape.”

Solona’s expression darkens, wounded and angry once again. The distance returns. The cold layers you have carefully worked to peel away with your terrible cooking and witty one-liners each night in camp snap straight back into place. She is guarded, defensive. “I did as I was instructed!”

Yet, Greagoir proceeds to lay blame even when he says he cannot fault her for whatever misdeed you suspect led her to you in the camp , nor for the Rite of Annulment on its way from Denerim. You hate him even more for taking Solona’s home away twice. 

Her hands quake at her sides, and you catch a feint mist lingering around her fingertips, but Solona’s temper is impressively controlled when she verbally bludgeons her way inside with the Knight-Commander’s reluctant permission. Her silence is overwhelming and deafening as her gaze scans the faces of the bloodied and mangled corpses littering the ground. She glides through the apprentice quarters as though she has done so every day of her life, and you suppose, up until nearly two months ago, she right well has. 

One battered body you pass earns more of her hesitation. Her gaze lowers, her lower lip retreats between her teeth, and she leans to close the elf’s terrified eyes. 

You long to know if they were friends. You wonder how many of these people she knew and studied with—how many she sniggered with her hands in front of her face like she does so rarely, or winked at from across a hall when she caught them doing something they weren’t supposed to.

Something in your heart—the same feeling which drives your eagerness to take watch with her on those cold, starry nights and confess your rotten gossip for her ears only—longs to grab her hand, take hold, and reassure her that everything will be fine in the end. 

Because her eyes are hard, and you could need to guarantee such a thing, be the granter of hopes no matter how false.

Instead, you squeeze her arm to show her she is resilient when she ducks through a chest she says may have a ward or tome that will keep you all a bit safer. Her brows raise in surprise but she does not withdraw. So, you grab a little tighter, just for an instant before Leliana notices, and she solemnly returns the gesture.

———

Of course, she finds you in the Fade, stupidly in love with your sister and her family. 

You have the perfect life here. You are a cherished little brother, handy with repairs around the house, and your nephews swing from your arms like jungle cats. Goldanna is the best cook you have ever known, and does not call the grey Fereldan swill you concoct stew. Instead, she is your patient teacher and tells you how proud Mother would be of you.

Your real sister is similar to the one you encounter in the Fade: a demon. A truly nasty piece of work. You think you would rather have Morrigan as a sister, and shudder.

Denerim’s marketplace buzzes louder than ever. You could lose yourself to the sound. So deafening and hollow. 

You are alone inside, and Solona’s resolute stare flickers with sadness when she demands you learn some selfishness because people ultimately look out for themselves.

———

You take her advice to heart a few nights later, and hand her the rose on impulse.

It is high time you made decisions of your own.

You care for her. You want her time not spent chasing darkspawn or practicing spells. You want her affection she so slimly provides in solemn close-lipped smiles and frequent tiny tokens. You may only have a few months left to do so.

Her skin is so northern, but the shades of pink flooding her cheeks shine through exponentially—yes, you can configure mathematics actually, you aren’t that dumb. It may be from the fire popping and hissing in front of her, but the bitter chill that has descended upon the southern nations for the winter months proves that theory unlikely. 

Her twiddling posture is more embarrassed than impressed, trapped in her seat against a log, eager to end this devastatingly uncomfortable conversation. She commends your foolish bravery, but your poorly chosen metaphors prove folly.

Roses have their thorns, you bitterly suppose.

No matter. You were tired of thumbing it anyways.


End file.
